Shadows Cast by Stars (31 page)

I’m not ready. Madda said not to heal when I wasn’t well myself.

And yet, a boy is hurt.

“They’re waiting for you down at the dock. I’ve got Madda’s medicine kit ready for you,” my father says.

This was my choice. I chose this path. So why can’t I move?

My father takes my hand in his. “You can do this. I know you can. Put on a brave face and tend that boy like
you’ve done your brother all his life.” He touches my hair. “Don’t let them see you like this, Cass. You aren’t weak. Don’t give them reason to think you are.”

I want to tell my father he’s wrong, that I
am
weak, but the look on his face—the one that says he believes in me—convinces me otherwise. “Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

My father smiles. “That’s my girl.”

He walks me down the hill to where two men bob in a big rowboat. Neither says a word in greeting. My father helps me in, hands me Madda’s medicine kit—my medicine kit—and the men begin to row. I clutch the kit to my stomach and try to ignore the pain in my shoulder, the lump of stone in the pit of my stomach. How can I do this? I don’t even know what’s inside the medicine kit at this point. How much of the St. John’s wort did I use back at the boundary? How much willow bark remains? What if I need to suture a wound and there’s no gut? What if the kit’s completely empty, so that when I arrive at this boy’s side, I’ll find I can’t do a single damned thing? I should look, but I can’t. I can’t move at all. What kind of medicine woman will they think I am, wandering around with an empty medicine kit? What then? Will they laugh at me? Kick me out? Stone me?

The men dip their oars into the dark water and pull, dip and pull, and there, beyond the wake, is the sisiutl,
watching me with its glassy black eyes. He’s coming along to see what unfolds, and when I fail, he’ll swallow me whole.

But the sisiutl stops swimming and floats there in the water, just under the surface, as the boat draws toward the opposite shore. If anyone looked at it, they’d probably think it was a dead-head. Maybe it is. Maybe none of this is really happening. Maybe the shades aren’t really shades. Maybe the sisiutl isn’t really a sisiutl at all, but a trick of light that my brain has interpreted as something supernatural because that’s the only way I can make sense of this twisted reality I live in.

I turn my gaze to the sky. I don’t want to look at the lake anymore. If this world is a figment of my imagination, shouldn’t I be able to look at these two men in this rowboat and see Paul and Bran at the oars instead? Shouldn’t I look back at the dock and see my father standing there with Madda?

The man across from me frowns. “You okay?” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just fine.”

And I will be
, I tell myself.
Just wait and see
.

They beach the rowboat on the southern end of the lake, not far from Bran’s house.

“That way,” one of the men says, pointing toward the
neat rows of an orchard. He helps me out of the boat. My feet sink into the sand as I watch them paddle away.

I turn my back on the lake and head to the orchard.

Women cluster around my patient. They part as I approach. I recognize some of them from that day in the park, when Helen invited me to make baskets with them. They watch me with blank expressions, as if they don’t know me. And they don’t. They don’t want to, either. I’m here to heal, and then leave. I’m an outsider. I know it. They know it. And that’s just the way it is.

Helen is kneeling beside the boy who’s lying on his back unconscious. I almost drop the medicine kit. Helen. Who has lost Madda too. I draw a deep breath and walk toward her, hoping she’ll look at me. How could I have forgotten Helen? Who told her?

Doesn’t matter who told her
, my mind whispers.
It should have been you
.

It should have. Yes, it should have, but I was too lost in my own grief, my own pain, to think of anyone else but myself. The need to apologize, to make amends, to make everything better is so strong that I have to bite back the words, because now isn’t the time. Right now, that boy on the ground needs my help. Fix him first. Fix the rest after.

A dark-haired woman sits beside Helen, cradling the
boy’s head, weeping. She looks up at me. The woman from the park. The one who shunned me.

Doesn’t matter
, I repeat to myself.
Fix the boy. Fix him. Concentrate on that. Put the rest away
.

I crouch beside Helen. “What happened?”

“He fell,” the mother says.

“From how high?” I glance up at the tree above us.

“I wouldn’t know, would I? I wasn’t here when it happened.” Her eyes are angry and red. “You’re the healer. Heal him.”

Someone behind me snickers. Suddenly I can tell that this is a test. Heal the boy, and I pass. If I don’t, I’m nothing more than a half-breed outsider. My shoulder is throbbing. I pry the boy’s eyes open and find the whites staring back at me. His pulse is light and fluttery; his forehead cold. I gently check for broken bones but find none. No contusions, no scrapes, either. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was sleeping, but he isn’t. I can feel it. “Someone must be able to tell me what happened. You don’t expect me to work magic, do you?” I say.

Helen gives me a worried look. “We aren’t sure what happened, actually. He was climbing trees, but no one saw him fall.”

“Okay,” I say. “How long has he been lying here?”

“About an hour.”

An hour. I sit on my heels and bite back a groan. An hour. An hour! And I haven’t the faintest idea what’s wrong with him. Did he have a seizure? Is he in a coma? And if he is, what can I do about it? I open my medicine kit and stare at the bundles of herbs. What powers do they have? What latent magic do they hold within their petals, their fragile leaves, macerated and broken into pieces as if that might give them sway over life and death?

Helen touches my arm. “What do you need?”

I try to convey my gratitude in my smile, hoping she’ll understand, and maybe, forgive. “Water. A fire.”

She nods and goes to talk to the other women, leaving me alone with the boy and his mother.

Madda said that if all else fails, look for the source of physical ailment in spirit, and right now, that’s all I think I can do. Madda also said I shouldn’t go into spirit when I’m not well, and goodness knows I don’t want to, but I have no other choice. Maybe there I might be able to see what’s wrong. I hang my head. This is a bad idea, but what am I supposed to do with nettles and mint?

All I know is that I have no choice. I must heal this boy.

Helen brings me a bucket of water as the smoke blows past me. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper to her as the other
women mingle around, looking worried and frightened.

“Not now.” Helen holds her breath. “I can’t. Not now. You can’t either.” She tips her head in the direction the other women. “We’ve all heard about what happened at the boundary. You’re going to do spirit medicine?”

“Yeah.” I scatter a handful of sweet grass over the fire. It bursts into flames and the air fills with its perfume. “I can’t tell what’s wrong with him physically. I figure a look into spirit might be of some help.”

She squeezes my hand, taking me by surprise. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” I hope my hair hides the blush burning on my cheeks. “The boy—what’s his name?” I ask.

“Saul,” his mother mutters. “You going into spirit?”

“Yep,” I say as I draw a big breath. “I don’t know why he’s unconscious. I might be able to find out in the spirit world.”

“Look for an elk.” She nods at me. “That’s his totem. Bring my boy back.”

“I’ll do my best.” Smoke swirls around my head. I waft it over my face, over my body, down toward my feet, and around my womb. Silence—the strange, otherworldly silence that accompanies a shift from the here-and-now into spirit, the silence of a passing season, the silence of death dancing, drops around me like a cage. I close my eyes as the sparks approach, and cross …

… and open my eyes to find myself sitting beside the fire, right beside the boy, still surrounded by Helen and the other women. I’m not in spirit. I close my eyes and try again, and again.

I fight back tears of frustration. I can’t let him die. I can’t.
Madda, help me. Help me help him!
I close my eyes, and try again.

This time when I open my eyes, I’m in spirit, but floating far above the lake. I stretch out, trying to drop from the sky, but I’m suspended there. I can’t move a muscle. Below, I can just make out something crawling along the lakeshore, something that feels … wrong. A fog has risen, a black, poisonous, stinking fog. It slinks along the ground, past the lake, winding its way past willows and stumps.

A stench rises up to where I hover, that foul, putrid stench I’ve smelled before, but this is the first time I’ve seen it take form. I stretch my wings wide, ready to plummet back to the earth and do battle with it, but before I can, a star drops toward me. A second follows. I hover, transfixed, as stars continue to fall, showering me, scorching my skin. Starlight sears my wings, cuts through my flesh, drives into my soul, and then the heavens shake and all the stars come loose, diamonds slipping through the hands of time, and me slipping with them.

No!
I scream, though all that comes from my mouth is a hiss.
No, don’t send me back yet! I need to stay. I need to find Saul!

But something in this spirit world has made the decision that Saul is not coming back, that I must return without him, and if I don’t do so willingly, it will send me back against my will—the hard way.

The smell of woodsmoke comes first, followed by onions. They linger on the breath of the person standing over me, shaking me.

“Cassandra, wake up. Open your eyes.”

I try, but sunlight burns them and they shut on their own.

“I mean it. Open your eyes and keep them open.”

I try again, and this time, have a little better luck. Helen’s face swims before me.

And then the wailing begins.

Time slows as I turn my head in infinitesimal degrees toward the boy. I did not find him. He has died while I was gone. He has died.

The women rush past me to his side as I watch, dumbstruck.

His mother raises her head and howls, and when she brings her gaze back down, her eyes fix on me. “You! You
did this!” She claws her way through the other women, struggling to reach me.

Helen steps between us and I almost push her aside. I want to feel this woman’s pain. I want her to beat me, to hurt me. I failed, but Helen takes the woman’s flailing hands and holds them. “She tried,” I hear her say. “She tried.”

The woman snarls and pushes Helen away. She seizes my arm and twists it, trying to wrench it from its socket. I feel a searing pain as the newly healed skin on my shoulder rips. She shoves me to the ground and leaps on me. I don’t struggle. I let her push my face into the dirt and hold it there.

“You die too!” she screams, slamming a knee into my kidney. “You go with him!”

All right. I will. There’s nothing left for me here. I am the reaper of lives, not a healer. They’re better off without me
.

I want her to do it.

The woman laughs. The sound is high, distraught with lunacy, and then, someone pulls her off me.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a man says.

I know this voice of salvation. Cedar.

I lie in the dirt while the woman stares at me, blinking. Tears slip down her cheeks. “You’re just a girl,” she
says, as if she’s seen me for the first time. “Just a girl.” Her head bows as she walks back to her son, drops down, and gathers his limp body in her arms.

Cedar helps me up. Blood has stained my shirt, but I no longer feel the pain in my shoulder. I don’t feel anything at all.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he glowers at the other women. “Jealous cows. Didn’t lift a finger to help her, did you? Just let her get beat down, and whose responsibility was Saul? Not hers. She crossed into spirit even though she almost died a week ago, and you blame her? Who was supposed to be looking after Saul? Why aren’t you beating that person?” He brushes dirt from my face.

“It’s okay,” I mumble. “It’s just a bad situation.”

Helen hands me my medicine kit. “I think you better go,” she says as the mother begins to howl again. “She’ll be all right, but still, I think you’d better go. But I know, Cass. I know you tried. I saw.”

I
sit in the prow of Cedar’s rowboat, staring at my palm. A burn the shape of a star is there. What does that mean? It’s like the lines are blurred between the spirit world and this one, but why? And that fog—what was that? How could I have any hope of succeeding when faced with something like that?

Maybe I wasn’t meant to succeed. Maybe this was something beyond me. My job is to heal. If something— something more than me—decided Saul wasn’t to be healed, then maybe I couldn’t have done anything anyhow.